


Need to Talk

by GalaxyOwl



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyOwl/pseuds/GalaxyOwl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day after Hilbert’s mutiny, Eiffel records thirteen different versions of his daily log before he has one he deems safe to send out.</p><p>(Some habits never really die.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need to Talk

The day after Hilbert’s mutiny, Eiffel records thirteen different versions of his daily log before he has one he deems safe to send out.

_This is the log of communications officer Doug Eiffel. Today is day 581 aboard the U.S.S. Hephaestus._

He never even really thought about it before—how reliant he’d become on them. It just sort of… happened. It wasn’t that weird, was it? It was the only piece of regulation he’d managed to hold onto. It kept him grounded. Or something.

When he’d first started them, it had been awkward. After all, how weird was it to try to talk about your day knowing those weirdos at command would be listening to it in a few weeks’ time? But as the days wore on (and, god, did they wear _on_ and _on_ and _on_ ), he just sort of… Forgot. That someone was supposed to listen to them.

He’s still not entirely sure that anyone is.

_We had some… issues, the other day, which we already reported to command. And, well… I don’t really feel like talking about them right now. Not more than I have to._

Maybe it was that there was no one to talk to. At least, no one he really _wanted_ to talk to. Not at the time. You couldn’t exactly go to Minkowski when it was 3:00 am (by the clocks, because time doesn’t really mean anything here, it’s all just _numbers_ ) and you need rant about how terrified you are that you’ll never make it home, that the dark of space outside the windows feels like it gets darker and darker with every passing day, that your job is meaningless and you’re scared you’re going to die out here.

And Hera, well, talking to Hera hadn’t really occurred to him back then. Why would you tell a machine any of this stuff? Of course, she heard all of it anyways. He wonders how much she _listened_ to. How much she thought about. Had she cared, back then, in the beginning? Had he?

_But I’m happy to say that Minkowski promises me she’s taking care of Hilbert. And that we wont have anything to worry about from now on!_

(That sounded fake. Did that sound fake? Maybe he should just start over again.)

The logs were a place to vent. But also to just … think things through. The shit that went on around here, it needed the end cap. Just a few words, to make the days screwed-up antics feel as if they were someone a single event, all tied up together. And, tomorrow, he would start again. And everything would be okay.

Also, he just liked to talk. He liked the sound of his voice. He liked being able to say words and do something concrete, something that felt like productivity that _wasn’t_ listening to static for hours on end.

_Yep, it sure does look like things should be taking the turn for the better. At the very least, the chance of me being murdered in my sleep has dropped significantly._

(If only _that_ were true.)

He tells himself all these things, at any rate. He doesn’t really know. Maybe it was all chance, all the interruptions of his recordings that made it hard not take them seriously when there was so much reality to them. 

Does it matter? 

***

_Okay. Day… 594. What do we want for today? Eiffel, you got any ideas?_

Eiffel and Minkowski sat down every morning, (sometimes over breakfast, usually over trying not to let the station fall apart) and plan out what’s going to happen that day. What they’re going to say in their logs. It started off pretty casual; a brief, necessary conversation. They can’t tell command the truth, so they should at least be consistent in their lies. Makes sense, right?

_I don’t know, Minkowski. Something with the creepy-as-hell plant? We haven’t done the plant thing in a while, have we?_

It wasn’t until Hera came back that these morning sessions become more of an organized thing. She—she got really into it. Like, weirdly into it. (She later confessed that during those first weeks back, it was the only thing she had any control over.)

_It’s only been three days since the last time we’ve “done the plant thing,” Officer Eiffel. Not that it couldn’t attack again, but, statistically speaking, it’s rather unlikely. Especially given that the real thing has been rather quiet._

(Like that has anything to do with anything. Honestly, does she think they’re writing a novel or something?)

Some days, it’s the only time he talks to Minkowski faced to face, the only time he talks to Hera outside of checking to make sure nothing has blown up yet. Some days, it feel weird that Hilbert isn’t there. As much as he’d always creeped Eiffel out, he’d been a part of the crew, back in the beginning. It was weird that he was never a part of these morning gatherings. That he never could or would have been.

 _Come_ on _. Command hardly needs to know that. Mutant Space Plant Monster plots are more fun to talk about._

It’s a game, one all three of them are good at, because they get to make up the rules as they go along.

***

Of course, Eiffel never told the others about his secondary logs. How many days it took him to stop talking into a recording device he’d hadn’t turned on (or how many before that he’d forgotten _not_ to turn it on).

_Um, Officer Eiffel? Do you need to…_

He couldn’t keep them, couldn’t leave them to listen to later. Hera said there was a more than probable chance anything left on the computers for more than 24 hours would be sent to Command. But they helped, anyways. He could talk about the day, what _really happened_ , without worrying. He could pretend, still, that there was someone, far away, still listening. That someone cared.

He could pretend that anyone at all on Earth gave a damn about what happened to him out here. Maybe that’s what it had always been, even from the beginning.

 _Do I need to_ what _, Hera?_

He doesn’t do it every day, anymore. Only, like, every other day. Which is better. He’s coping. He is coping _just fine_ , and definitely not freaking out over the Hilbert thing, or the Lovelace thing, or any other number of _things_ that have even a little bit of relevance to his life.

He’s fine.

_Do you need to talk?_

It’s just that, old habits die hard, and all that. 

Although sometimes, he would start recording his log, and their morning’s plannings would just leave his head entirely, and he’d start in on what had happened that day. And then since he’d _started_ , he may as well kept going, right?

_No, I’m fine, Hera. Really. It’s—it’s nothing. Thanks, though. … Uh, on second thought, why do you ask?_

He tells himself all these things, at any rate. But he doesn’t really know. He tries not to think too hard about it. Tries to take any comforts he can get, even if they come in the form of indulging in useless, creepily-ingrained habits.

_It’s just… You’re on the fourth draft of your daily log for command, and, you only ever do more than two when you’re upset, or scared, or confused, or worried, or—_

Eiffel sighs, looks up towards the speakers Hera’s voice is coming from. (It helps to have something to look at when you talk to someone, okay?)

_So, basically, all the time?_

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I literally just finished listening to this podcast less than 24 hours ago. And the lack of fanfic for it is tragic, so here's me, attempting to remedy that.
> 
> (Also, I apologize for the italicized dialogue thing. It just sort of happened.)


End file.
